He lifted his hand and pointed down the aisle. “You go first.”
Pressing my lips together and biting my tongue so I wouldn’t say something stupid, I rose from my seat as gracefully as possible. The men from the back were gone, but I could see them entering the building directly ahead. I reached the drop off, jumped and landed awkwardly on my left foot. I wobbled unevenly, losing my balance as I almost tumbled forward.
Carter was there in a flash. He gripped my arm and pulled me up. He waited until I regained my balance before he let go. He motioned toward my bent knee.
“What happened to your leg?”
“Oh, that?” I looked down at my lame leg and shrugged. “I was a professional river dancer until one of my jigs didn’t go as planned. It happens.”
His brow crinkled in what I recognized as very real confusion—a look I was all too familiar with. He probably had no clue who in the hell Michael Flatley was, much less Lord of the Dance.
He didn’t press the issue, remaining behind me as I strode up the ramp and inside the building. The hallway was barren, the cream-hued walls spray-painted with multi-colored graffiti. He placed his hand under my left arm and guided me toward the elevator. The men from the bus moved aside, allowing us to pass. I felt the weight of their stares but tried to appear unfazed, looking directly ahead at the silver elevator doors.
When they slid open, I stepped inside and found there was one bonus to be had in the apocalyptic future—no whimsical flutes serenaded the inhabitants of the compartment. Carter pushed the button to take us to the top floor, and the doors closed with a happy ding. My stomach flip-flopped when the elevator shot up. I shifted my attention, staring at Carter. He was as serious as ever. From what I could gather, he was probably in his thirties. But when his brow furrowed and creased, creating lines and wrinkles around his eyes, he looked damn near fifty.
When we reached the designated floor, the alarm chimed again and the doors opened. Directly ahead was a huge living room, complete with art deco furniture. Carter lifted his hands and motioned to the room, indicating I should go first, and I nervously stepped into what I assumed was his apartment. Although he hadn’t given the vibe that he would try to do something I wouldn’t consent to, I was well aware of the masks people wore when they wanted to portray themselves as something they weren’t. Therefore, I stayed on guard.
“Take a seat,” he instructed.
I took him up on the offer—not to be menial but because my knee was betraying me like the two-faced bitch it was. The couch wasn’t comfortable, but neither my bruised posterior nor my crippled leg complained.
I sat back, remaining anxious and on alert.
“Would you like something to drink?” Carter asked and stepped from the center of the room. Everything felt surreal. He was talking to me like a guest.
I remained silent as he walked around the bar and worked the holster off his broad, muscular shoulders. He tossed the item to the counter and unbuttoned the long-sleeved camouflage shirt covering his body. In doing so, he revealed corded forearms with a scattering of dark hair. He shrugged out of the garment and folded it. Then he placed the shirt on the counter next to the holster.
He walked to the fridge and I heard the pop of the door opening as he called out, “Do you always make people repeat themselves?”
“Sure Martha, I’ll take a drink,” I replied evenly. “Why don’t you whip me up some dinner while you’re at it? I’m starving over here.”
I heard glasses being dinged together, followed by the slosh of liquid being poured. The refrigerator door closed with a whoosh and he came around the bar with two drinks in hand.
“Here.” He extended one of the glasses to me. I took it but kept the beverage far, far away from my mouth. I balanced the container on my knee, studying the amber liquid inside.